by Stuart Woods
His first impulse was to throw it in the ocean, but he was in East L.A. How about a dumpster? The idea made him nervous. Should the gun be found, could it be traced back to him? No, he hadn’t bought it in a store. But could it be traced back to the guy who sold it to him?
Donnie put the car into drive and took off. He was driving on autopilot, still playing it over in his mind. The bottle smashing on the floor. Jumping back from the spray of sour mash. Had he gotten any on his clothes? No matter. They were off to the cleaners in the morning.
The car, as if it had a mind of its own, had driven into the Santa Monica hills. He reached a curve in the road overlooking the bay. He stopped the car and got out; he walked to the edge of the bluff and looked down. He could see the waves lapping against the cliffs below. There was no one in sight. He took out the gun and unscrewed the silencer. He polished the gun with his handkerchief and hurled it over the edge. It splashed into the water.
Donnie heaved a huge sigh of relief and turned to go.
What about the silencer? Could they match the fatal bullet to the silencer it had been fired through? Donnie didn’t think so. But he wasn’t sure. That was a pain in the ass. Good silencers were expensive and hard to come by.
So was his peace of mind.
Donnie polished the silencer and threw it into the sea.
8
Teddy went down to the police station to find out about the status of his case.
The sergeant shook a gloomy head. “You’ll have to talk to the ADA.”
“Which one?”
“Rollins, I think.”
ADA Jason Rollins wasn’t any help. “We charged him, and he made bail.”
“Charged him with what?”
“Attempted burglary.”
“He was armed.”
“Half the thugs we pick up are armed. They carry guns and don’t take them off to commit a burglary. It’s not as if the judge made it easy on him. Bail was a hundred thousand.”
“Who put it up?”
“The lawyer did. Good luck finding out who paid him.”
“When will it go to court?”
The ADA shrugged. “Not for a few months. The case isn’t even on the docket yet.”
“So I can’t find out what this creep was up to?”
“That’s the way the system works. His rights are protected. Yours, not so much.”
* * *
Teddy pulled up in front of Chaz Bowen’s apartment building. It occurred to him he should have taken a production car. This was not the type of neighborhood in which he liked to leave his vintage Porsche. He went up on the front steps and checked the buzzers, finding the one marked Bowen, 2A, but he didn’t ring it. He inserted a short piece of metal into the door lock and had it open in ten seconds.
Teddy went up the stairs to 2A. He didn’t bother to knock. The guy hadn’t knocked on his door. Fair is fair.
Teddy kicked the door in fast, leading with his gun.
The body of Chaz Bowen lay facedown in the middle of the floor. He’d been shot once in the back of the head.
A whiskey bottle lay shattered around him.
From the look of things, Chaz Bowen had been dead for several hours and the killer was long gone, but Teddy still made a sweep of the apartment to make sure he was alone.
A familiar red-and-blue flashing light cast a faint glow in the apartment.
Teddy rushed to the window. He flattened himself against the wall and peered out.
A police car had stopped out front and two uniformed cops were getting out.
Teddy didn’t wait to see what they were up to. He slipped out the apartment door and took the stairs up.
The brownstone had four floors. There was a fifth flight up, leading to an access door to the roof. The door was securely fastened by a heavy-duty chain locked with an equally heavy-duty padlock. Teddy made quick work of it. He pulled the chain loose, wrenched the door open, and stepped out onto the roof.
The brownstone next door was only three stories high. What a waste of real estate, Teddy thought.
He went back to the stairwell. The chain that had been holding the door shut was pretty long. Teddy unwound it and pulled it free. He took it up on the roof, letting the door close behind him.
At the edge of the roof was a standpipe about six inches high. Teddy had no idea what it was for, but it looked solid. He looped the end of the chain around it and locked it with the padlock. He dangled the chain over the side of the roof and tested it. It seemed sturdy enough. He lowered himself over the edge of the roof and climbed down.
The access door to the roof of the three-story brownstone was locked from the inside, but there was a fire escape on the back of the building. Teddy dropped down onto it.
Lights were on in the third-floor apartment, and Teddy could see movement through the window. He sprinted down the fire escape to the first floor, hung off the bottom, and dropped to the ground.
Teddy was in luck. The backyards of the buildings connected. He was able to creep along until he got to the alley. He hurried down it and peered out into the street.
Teddy had parked his car a block away out of habit. He hurried to it, climbed in, and started the motor.
In his rearview mirror he could see the red and blue lights flashing as he pulled away.
9
Early the next morning Teddy was awakened by a banging on the front door. He rolled over in bed and checked the security system. It was the police.
Teddy pushed the intercom and said, “Just a minute.” He pulled on a bathrobe and stumbled downstairs.
Teddy opened the front door and said, “Did you find out anything?”
That took the officer aback. “Find out anything?”
“About the break-in.”
“Only in a manner of speaking. The man who attempted the break-in was found dead in his apartment last night.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, sir, that’s a fact.”
“So, you don’t know why this guy targeted my house, and now we’ll never find out?”
“That the least of our problems. We have a murder on our hands.”
“That’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Well, sir, you do top the list of people who might want the victim dead.”
Teddy groaned. “That doesn’t even make any sense. The guy tried to rob me so I killed him? I certainly hope you have a better theory than that.”
“We’re just running down leads.” The officer turned and pointed. “That is your Porsche Speedster parked over there, isn’t it?”
“What about it?”
“The police responded to a call last night of a man breaking into the downstairs door of the building where the victim lived.”
“Well, I hope they had more luck investigating that break-in than they did mine.”
“A car matching the description of yours was seen parked in the neighborhood about the time the police got the call.”
“Did they get the plate number?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“You are, actually. You just don’t have it because they didn’t get it. This is Hollywood. You know how many vintage cars there are in this town? Maybe it’s an affectation, but I don’t care. I’m not out to impress anybody. I happen to like the car.”
“Where were you at the time of the crime?”
“Well, I don’t know when the crime was committed. What time are we talking about, Officer?”
“Around eleven last night.”
“Oh. Then I know exactly where I was. I was watching the news. I wanted to see how they reported the Oscar nominations. Not to brag, but my picture happened to get several.”
The officer grinned. “You got an Oscar nomination?”
“Yes, I did.”
“W
hat movie?”
“Desperation at Dawn.”
“Really? I loved that movie.”
“You’ve made my day. That, Officer, is more important to me than an Oscar. It’s nice to get good reviews, of course, but what you really want is a film that people enjoy. If you can do that, you’re doing your job.” Teddy smiled. “See, with all that happening yesterday, you can understand how I find it hard to relate if some punk gets whacked in his apartment. How was he killed, by the way?”
“Single shot to the head.”
Teddy considered, nodded. “Cinematically good. You know how we do it in the movies with blanks and blood bags, but, of course, it’s not the real thing. You’ll keep me informed on how this turns out?”
10
Sylvester looked like someone out of a Charles Addams drawing, but the man had a sense of humor, be it somewhat macabre. “Are you interested in irony?”
Gino Patelli looked up from the racing form he was studying. He seemed annoyed at being interrupted. “I’m interested in results,” he said. “You got any results?”
“Yes, I do. They just happen to be ironic.”
“You mind spitting it out?”
“Not at all. The police have a suspect in the murder of Chaz Bowen.”
“Oh, yeah? And who is that?”
“Billy Barnett.”
“What?”
“A man of his description was seen breaking into the building, and his car was seen parked in the vicinity around the time of the crime.”
“And when was that?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“Is that when Chaz was killed?”
“I think so. I’d rather not call and ask. I think the less contact we have with Donnie Martel the better.”
“Have the police gotten onto him yet?”
“I don’t think so. So far, the only evidence they’ve come up with points to Billy Barnett.”
“And that’s all they’ve got on him? Just a car parked in the neighborhood?”
“According to my source.”
“That’s not much evidence.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Gino cocked his head. “It seems like they should have a little more.”
11
Sylvester signed up for the Centurion Studios tour. He didn’t want to, but it was the easiest way for him to get onto the lot. As a result he found himself with a bunch of tourists oohing and aahing over old sets where movies once had been filmed.
He snuck away as quickly as possible and found himself in the production wing of Centurion Studios. The office of Ben Bacchetti, the head of the studio, dominated the wing. The offices of the producers and directors radiated out from there.
Sylvester passed the office of Peter Barrington and came to the office of Billy Barnett.
Sylvester sighed. Under any other circumstances he would have pushed his way into the outer office and sweet-talked the secretary into giving him a chance to find something useful. Only this was a case where he didn’t dare let his visit, however innocuous, be associated in any way with the result. As things were, he needed a place to hide out.
A bathroom was possible, but inconvenient. A storeroom would be better. He spotted what looked like the door to one at the end of the hall.
Sylvester’s expertise with locks, though not up to Teddy’s standard, was still pretty good. He had the door open in less than a minute. He slipped inside and was rewarded to find a low-use storage cabinet, not with papers and pencils and daily shooting schedules and the like, but instead with a number of canvas tarps, cots, and chairs, the type of equipment apt to be brought out on a particular day to fill a particular purpose.
Sylvester set up one of the cots. He switched his phone to vibrate and set it for nine o’clock. Then he lay down on the cot and went to sleep.
At 9:05 Sylvester pushed open the storage room door and slipped out into the hallway. The building was still in use, but most people had gone home. Lights were on in the corridors, but most of the offices were dark, including Billy Barnett’s. Sylvester took two metal strips from his pocket and picked the lock.
The lock on the inner office was no more difficult than the one on the outer. Sylvester slipped in and closed the door behind him. He took a penlight out of his pocket and switched it on.
At first glance there was nothing of interest. The desk was nearly bare. The outbox was empty. A couple of screenplays were stacked on the far corner of the desk, a good indication they were something the producer had been putting off reading.
Sylvester searched the office. He found a wall safe underneath a movie poster. Smiling, he set out to open it. A few minutes later he was no longer smiling. Well, that was interesting. Sylvester could get into most office safes with little trouble, but this one had him stymied. The lock was much more sophisticated than any movie producer could possibly need. What could he keep in it? A hush-hush screenplay?
Whatever it was, Sylvester wasn’t getting a look at it. He replaced the poster and looked around the office.
All right. It didn’t have to be important, it just had to be personal.
Sylvester went to the desk. He opened the top drawer and was greeted by a number of papers, none of them personal. The one on top was a receipt for a takeout delivery. Billy Barnett had had a sandwich delivered and signed for it with a credit card.
Perfect. Sylvester pocketed the receipt, closed up the office, and slipped out the door.
12
Sylvester checked out Chaz Bowen’s apartment building from across the street. He’d never been there, but apartment 2A was most likely the street-side apartment on the second floor. It was dark, but lights were on in several of the other apartments.
It had been a long day. Sylvester wasn’t waiting for everyone to go to bed. If the apartment was on the second floor, it wasn’t like he’d have to go past any other apartment to get in.
Sylvester crossed the street and inspected the door lock. It was as flimsy as he’d expected. He quickly jimmied the door and went up to the second floor.
There was a crime scene seal pasted over the crack between the door and its frame. There was no way to get in without disturbing it. That didn’t bother Sylvester. Disturbing it was part of the plan. Sylvester clicked open a razor-sharp gravity knife and slit the crime scene seal right down the crack. The result was perfect. It could be readily seen, but it looked like whoever had done it had been trying to conceal it.
Sylvester shone his penlight around the apartment. He could see the outline where the body had lain on the floor. Was there anything there worth examining? Not really.
Sylvester sat at the desk and pulled open the drawers. He pawed through the top drawer and came out with Chaz Bowen’s checkbook. He flipped it open. The checks were in the bottom half, the ledger in the top. He thumbed through the listing of checks and deposits.
The last entry was a cash deposit of two thousand dollars. That figured. Chaz had been getting five thousand for the Billy Barnett hit, twenty-five hundred up front. Clearly he’d held on to five hundred dollars and deposited the rest.
There was no notation for the source of the deposit. Sylvester smiled. Excellent. That would be what Billy Barnett was looking for, and this would be the dead end he came to.
Sylvester creased the page, so the ledger naturally fell open to it. He stuck the checkbook back in the drawer, slightly askew so it stood out.
Okay, that’s what the intruder was doing.
Here’s what he dropped doing it.
Sylvester took the credit card receipt out of his pocket and crumpled it up. He dropped it on the floor by the chair, where it might have fallen out of the pocket of someone sitting at the desk.
Sylvester glanced around the apartment. Was there anything else he could do? No, the receipt was enough. Anything else would be overkill.
Sylvester worked his way to the door and slipped out. Moments later he was in his car, surveying his handiwork. So, the bait was in the trap. The police had only to find it.
He considered calling in an anonymous tip, but decided against it. There was no need. Chaz Bowen’s apartment was on the second floor. Tenants on the higher floors would be passing by it on their way to work in the morning. One of them would notice the violated crime scene and phone it in.
Billy Barnett would have a lot of explaining to do.
13
Viveca Rothschild was riding the high. She had been excited about the Oscars before, but never like this. She’d always been the underdog, never the front-runner. It was nerve-racking, as if she had something to lose. The more real the possibility became, the more terrified she became that it would be snatched from her grasp. This tiny seed of doubt was the only thing that kept her from thoroughly enjoying her nomination.
“Popcorn, who needs popcorn?” Cheryl asked, emerging from the kitchen with a big bowl. “What’s a movie without popcorn?”
“Television,” Marcy Scott said, and everybody laughed. “We’re watching television.”
“Yes, but it’s television about the movies. And if you don’t have popcorn you’re a grouch.”
Viveca laughed. “No grouches, no grouches. Only positive energy. This is the year of happiness and goodwill.” She gestured toward the television. “Even those assholes can’t spoil it.”
The assholes in question were Mickey and Marvin, two Los Angeles critics whose TV review show had been known to make or break movies.
Despite a reputation for being snarky, Mickey and Marvin had always had a soft spot for Viveca Rothschild. Reviews of her work had been favorable, if condescending. Viveca always felt they damned her with faint praise.
It was not all in her head. The other two times she’d been nominated, they’d treated her like a little girl lucky to have been seated at the grown-ups’ table. Mickey Stillhorn’s dismissal had particularly stung: “For her, the nomination is the award.”
